Singing for your supper

We were due at Notre Dame for mass at 11:30, the scheduled time for the choir. On the metro, we met Leon the Singing Dog. Leon and his master, a Frenchman in a pale aqua pastel buttoned shirt with no sleeves, wore matching hats. When the Frenchman set down the woven basket he was carrying, Leon would jump in to be carried onto the train or up the stairs. The Frenchman gave us a handwritten card with a Web address so we could enjoy the wonders of Leon later.

The choir was positioned behind the altar and hard to see, except for Darien, who was on the end closest to the congregation. I could hear Antonia's voice, but not see her. The cantors were wonderful, but several choristers told me Antonia upstaged them. I didn't disagree. Like fish in a rain-swollen river, the crowds circled us on the periphery throughout the service, most with cameras and often with flashbulbs punctuating the service. Several thousand people attended the mass, not even counting the fish swimming on the edge.

We metro'ed back to the apartment to drop off the music and robes. We walked back through the Marais so Antonia could purchase some jewelery for a friend. We found something in a little boutique where several artists had wares, surreptitiously buying Antonia a set of earrings at the same time. Darien and Antonia bought a falafel afterward, and let me finish the pita after telling me how good the filling was.

Back at Notre Dame, we arrived in time to hear most of an organ recital, which was marred only by the incessant chatter of the crowds around us, even among those ostensibly there to listen.

We  drifted off in search of the Musee d'Orsay. Antonia's internal GPS was upset by sunspots again, however, and we ended up going in the opposite direction. Darien was beginning to fracture. We slowed the pace and fortified Darien with strawberry gelato and Perrier. We were close to the Cluny gardens, but by the time we got there they were closed, so we strolled over to the Luxembourg gardens and sat for a while in Saint Sulpice church, listening to a bit of organ and choral singing and looking at the murals by Delacroix.

There was an attempt to arrange dinner with some of the choristers, but we wandered around Montparnesse for close to an hour trying to get our bearings and find their hotel. A barista in a sidewalk cafe was very helpful. We finally found our friends, but most of the restaurants were closed because it was Sunday. The hotel manager tried valiantly to get us taxis to a restaurant, but it just wasn't working. Half of us went on and the other half stayed behind to eat bar pizza, drink beer, and watch the final game of the World Cup.

The metro back was hot, crowded, and loud with raucous Spanish partisans. The Spanish cafe near our apartment overflowed with revelers, but they soon quieted down.

That night, the lightning and storm came furiously. Antonia got up and shut the doors to our balconies to save the wooden floors from the rain.